


The Diary of Richard Brook

by Mishu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Problematic opinions, Rape, Twincest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 21:58:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5886886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishu/pseuds/Mishu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard Brook was real. Is real. Depends on who you ask, that whole "was", "is" argument.<br/>But still.<br/>He's real, and this was his life with his beautiful, beautiful brother. It all began when he was thirteen, and ends with Jim. Pure, sweet Jimmy. His favourite present in the whole wide world.<br/>And blood. And a shot through the mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Underland

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, just a bit of warning here.  
> Richard is of the mindset that "girls get raped, boys don't". I, as the author, wholly and utterly disagree with Richard, and he disagrees with himself, too. Please, if that sort of thought makes you anxious, or makes you upset, please don't carry on reading.  
> By the end of the first chapter, he loses that ideology.

It’s hard, being the twin of a psychopath. Richard knows that far better than anyone, even at the tender age of thirteen. It’s not that Jim’s bad to him, per se – he protects him from Carl, he protects him from everyone, and he’s not bad to him that much.

Apart from when he is.

And then he’s really, really bad.

_Dear diary,_

_Ma and da are fighting again. I think it’s about money this time, or da’s drinking habit. Jim says it’s because they’re both ‘f!cking retarded’. He’s still hanging around with that awful boy, his name is Carl, and he keeps swearing. But I don’t swear, diary. I even used an exclamation mark so that I don’t swear._

_Not much has happened since last week. Jim tried to drown me again, but he didn’t mean to do it. He was just so stressed so he kept holding me under the water at the swimming baths. I’m really glad Mr. Gale noticed this time. I only lasted two minutes, this time, before I passed out._

_I think he’s trying to kill me. Well, no, I think he’s trying to save me, but I don’t know if he’s saving me from real life or from himself._

_He’s coming home soon. He has swim practice. He’s probably going to have Carl with him._

_I hate Carl, diary. I really hate him, and I know I’m not meant to, but he makes me feel really unclean. I don’t like it when he touches me. Jim doesn’t notice because they’re too busy smoking those strange things that make the room smell bad, not like cigarettes, but even worse. Really, really bad. And Jim gets all strange when he has them._

_Jim called me a ‘pretty mess’ yesterday, diary. He says I don’t deserve him. I don’t think I deserve his abuse. The nurse says it’s abuse, but he’s my twin, and twins aren’t meant to abuse other twins so I don’t think it’s abuse._

_Love,  
Richie xxx_

Richard sighed, putting his fountain pen down. He wafted the page to let it dry and then locked his diary, putting it in the very bottom drawer, with all his undies. The top drawer was Jim’s.

“I think the word of the day is dichotomy,” Jim drawled from the doorway, making Richard jump. “Can you tell me what that means, bunny?”

Richard very nearly trembled. “N-no,” he said. Jim was wet. His eyes were big. “Why do you have a scratch on your face?”

Jim didn’t answer his question.  “A dichotomy is a ‘partition of a whole into two parts’. That’s you and me. You stole a bit of me to be you. I’m the older one, so you stole a bit of me. I want it back.”

“I – I can’t,” Richard said quietly. “That’s not how biology works, Jim, you should know that.”

He shouldn’t have said anything. He must have really upset Jim. Jim wasn’t bad for that, though. No, he had upset Jim. It was his fault. His fault.

The next day, Jim stopped protecting him from Carl.

“Oi, fag,” Carl said, leaning on the wall by Richard. Richard had run away from bullies, hiding by the bins. It stank of stale fags and rotten food, and that’s why only the smokers came here. The smokers never bothered Richard, but they weren’t friends to him, either. “You – “

“I’m not a fag,” Richard interjected. He was very stupid for that. “Jimmy’ll tell you off when I tell him you called me a fag.” Was Carl always so big? He was so tall. Mind, he was fifteen, two years older than Richard, with hair on his chinny-chin-chin (like the big bad wolf – what big eyes he had, what big teeth, what big hands and muscles), and he was built like a brick shithouse.

“Your brother is as bent as they come. Surprised he’s not fucked you yet.” Carl was so crude, so nasty and disgusting. It made Richard’s skin crawl. “But nobody’s fucked you, have they? No. But I will.”

Richard very nearly screamed, but boys didn’t scream. Girls screamed, and they had little rape whistles and pepper spray because boys didn’t get raped and girls did. He bit and he kicked and he fought as best as he could, but it was too little, too late.

Was it rape?

He didn’t want to call it fucking. His priest might get mad if he knew Richard had been swearing. But that was two bad words in – in an hour, he’d missed Mathematics, Mr. Brassington would be so mad – that was two swear words, and… Sex. Sex was easy. Sex was something everyone did. Rape was something men did to women, because boys and men didn’t get raped.

 _I didn’t get raped. I had sex with Carl Powers and it hurt a lot and I didn’t want it but it wasn’t rape._ He repeated it to himself all the way home, and he repeated it to himself in the shower so he didn’t cry. Or did he cry? The shower was really hot, though. It burned his skin, so that was why he was crying. Sex was really good for men. Did that make him a man now?

His gut hurt.

He blamed the sandwich he’d eaten. (But his stomach ached and growled; he hadn’t eaten for a day.) It must have been off; it was on thick white bread, with thick crusts and filled with a thick layer of raspberry jam. The jam must have been out of date.

Jam was expensive.

Jim bought him jam, once. A small jar. He said bought, but Richard knew he’d stolen it. It was the sweetest, nicest thing he’d ever tasted.

“Are you wasting all the fucking water?!” his father barked. “Get out before I kick you out! I need a piss! I’ll have my slash on your fucking pillow in a minute!”

Richard shut off the water and wrapped a towel around his waist and his shoulders, bundling himself up. He wanted Jim to kiss everything better. “I – “ He pretended his voice didn’t crack. “I’m done now, da!”

“You on the change, boy?” His father chuckled. His da didn’t laugh much. “Oh, son, c’mon. Get out, kid. I need a piss.”

Richard left the bathroom, eyes downcast. He felt like they would all know by looking at him. Would know he was a man now, and not a victim. He felt like a victim.

That night, Jim had Carl over for tea. His mum pretended like she hadn’t stopped putting vodka in his dad’s double voddy and coke, and his dad got louder and louder. Carl said all of the niceties, that the bolognese was lovely and the garlic bread even better, and Jim didn’t even look at him. Richard wanted Jim to look at him, know that Carl had had sex with him, but he didn’t, and that made it worse.

Around nine, his mum, dad, Carl, and Jim, they all left to the living room to play board games, so Richard went upstairs to write in his diary. Each step made him feel sick with pain.

_Dear diary,_

_I’m a man now. I lost my virginity._

_The thing is, diary, I think I might be broken, because I didn’t like it. Girls are the only ones who get raped, but ~~I think I was raped~~._

_Ignore that. My hand lied. Jim’s coming up the stairs. I know it’s him because he always creaks that fourth step. I want him to make it okay._

_Love,  
Richie xxx_

Richard hid his diary again. The ink was still wet, especially where he’d crossed through something he’d written. He hoped it didn’t smudge. Something. It wasn’t important.

Jim entered the bedroom, eyes fixed on Richard. The boy practically swelled with pride, now that his Jimmy – _his_ – was paying him attention. “Did he touch you?” Jim’s voice was sweet, soft, oozing love like honey oozed from the spoon into his porridge and then his mum would swirl it into the gloop so it was really sweet.

“I – I’m a man now,” Richard said. “I – I had sex. I’m sorry.”

Jim’s eyes flashed. He looked so scary in that moment; like a monster, or a devil, or a hideous ogre. “Was it sex?” he asked. His voice was so calm. But he looked so scary. “Roll over, Richard. Trousers down.”

He never called him Richard. Richard rolled over, tugging his trousers down, and Jim – touched him. Not how Carl did, but nicely. It felt like honey. Jim always felt like honey to him. Sticky, messy, sweet. Was Jim a present to him?

“I’ll never let this happen again,” James murmured. His Jimmy, his James, his Jim. “I’m so sorry, bunny. He said he was going to punch you, not rape you.”

“It’s not rape,” Richard argued. “Boys don’t get raped, Jim, you hear dad say it all the time. It’s not rape. I’m not a girl. I have the wrong bits for that.”

Jim slapped his bum. It hurt. It sent pangs of agony up his spine, made his legs feel like jelly. “Don’t be so stupid,” he hissed. “Anyone can be raped, Richard, and especially little boys. There’s even a name for it in Afghanistan. It’s called ‘bacha bazi’.”

They weren’t in Afghanistan. ‘Bacha bazi’ didn’t happen in Ireland. “It was sex,” he insisted. “Jimmy, please, you’re being silly.”

Jimmy grabbed his diary.

Jimmy killed Carl.

Richie was raped, and Jimmy killed Carl.


	2. Alice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incest! And Richard doesn't want it. He might want it. But he can't really say no, can he? Not to Jim. Never to Jim.

When he was sixteen, Richard found himself a pretty boyfriend. His name was Louis, and he had eyes like the stars. His skin was dark, his eyes even darker, and his hair a pretty shade of blond. Bleach, apparently. Who put bleach on their head?

Louis did. Apparently, he had black hair too, but that was boring. Richard just pressed their mouths together and swayed with the music. He had dark eyebrows. Of _course_ he had dark hair.

Louis took him home, and they had sex. Proper sex, not like the first time. Louis touched him and kissed him and they made ‘love’, even if Richard didn’t know what love was anymore.

When he awoke in the morning, his mouth was dry, and Louis was shaking. “What’s wrong?” he mumbled, voice scratchy. LSD always did this to him.

“N-nothing,” Louis whispered back, his voice soft like cotton candy. Richard _loved_ cotton candy. “You know what it’s like, the morning after. C’mon. Go. Your brother will lose his shit.”

Richard laughed, head thrown back. They had sex then, too – lazy, slow sex, with kisses that tasted like cock and morning breath and blowjobs that tasted even worse, but Richard loved it all. “I’ll go now,” he murmured, pressing a chaste kiss to that swollen mouth he'd spent all night begging for - _th_ _ere, harder, more_. “I love you.” He climbed out of Louis’ bed, dressed in his clothes, and left with a little hip sway and the feeling of Louis’ come sliding down his thigh.

When he arrived home from his walk of shame, his father was nowhere to be seen, and his mother was passed out on the sofa. He covered her with a blanket and made himself some breakfast. Really, his father had done well once he’d stopped drinking. He had a well-paid job, he’d lost weight, and he even wore suits now. There was food in the fridge and they had fizzy pop in the cupboards. He finished his breakfast and left the dish on the side, going upstairs for a shower.

Except.

“Bloody hell, Jim,” Richard complained. “What’re you – "

“You spent the night with him again,” Jim said, sat in front of Richard’s bedroom door. “I bet you got high and sucked his – "

“Smell my fingers,” Richard growled at him, nudging him out of the way. “Better yet, finger my arsehole and you’ll know _exactly_ what we did. Move!”

Hm. He didn’t mean to kick Jim that hard, but the loud crack of Jim’s head hitting the floor made him… Feel better, actually. “Now leave me alone.” He went into his bedroom and slammed the door with a satisfying bang. He needed drugs. But he couldn’t have them. He needed a shower, and he needed to go to college.

He showered, he dressed, and then… Then there was a pain in the back of his skull, he was on the floor, and the last thing he saw was Jim’s face. He was so angry…

His eyelids fluttered, and then they opened. It was white. He twisted his head, but found it pinned in place by a neck brace. His whole body was pinned down. He could feel soft straps on his wrists, his ankles, and his chest. “J-Jimmy?” he called timidly. Jim. Jim. Why was Jim significant? Jim would save him. Jim always saved him. “Jimmy… ‘M scared…”

“No you’re not,” Jim replied. His brother, his twin, his favourite. But. Jim had… Jim had hurt him, if he recalled correctly. After he kicked him. “You’re not scared, that’s the thing. I took care of you, and you repay me by being a filthy little slut. If you just wanted your greedy hole filling, why didn’t you say anything?”

Richard became aware of a buzzing between his legs. He hadn’t felt anything before, but now there was something vibrating in his arse, and his cock was swelling, and – and Jim had a remote in his hands. “Ji _iiii_ m,” he whined, trying to shift, trying to tilt his head. “Jim, stop – what’re you doing?”

“I’m sick of you leaving me,” Jim said, and the vibrations got worse. They weren’t where he needed them, god damn it. He tried to grind his hips, and found he had a tiny bit of leverage to try and rock the base of the toy. “I’m sick of you batting your eyes at everyone but me. You’re _mine_. You have _one fucking half of me_ , and you never gave it back, so I’m taking it. Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying it. I can see how aroused you are.”

Richard was painfully aroused. He squeezed his eyes shut with a soft whine, already planning his next diary entry:  _Dear diary, Jim used a sex toy on me while I was in some kinky hospital bondage. And I enjoyed it. Love, Richie._

“Promise not to leave me,” Jim whispered, leaning over him. Richard opened one eye. Jim was so close to his face. Jim’s nose was crooked. “Promise not to leave me and I’ll fuck you better than they ever will. I love you, Richie… My beautiful bunny… I’ll take us away from mum and dad, we can go to London, and I’ll… I’ll take such good care of you, bunny.” Richard’s eye closed again.

“No you won’t.” Richard said it so simply, like he was stating a fact. “You let it happen, Jim. You _watched_.”

Jim had watched the whole thing. It was why he couldn’t look at him at the dinner table. He had watched as he screamed and begged and broke his fingernails trying to claw away on the gravel. He had watched as Carl dumped the blood-covered condom into the bin, filled with his awful semen, and watched as Richard sobbed and begged for his Jimmy to come save him, patch him up, make it stop bleeding, make it stop hurting. “Now let me up. This is rape too, you know. You’re raping me.”

“You’re aroused,” Jim shot back, and his hand curled around Richard’s cock, and the way his twin brother moaned under his touch almost made him flinch. Almost. “You like it. You know you do. That makes you perverted, Richard. You’re sick. But I still love you. Aren’t I a loving brother?”  
  
“W-where the fuck are we?” Richard whispered breathily, his face rapidly reddening at the insults. “You sick fuck.” He gave up on not swearing when he was fourteen. His father liked it better when he acted tough. He kept his story books hidden under his bed.

“You’re the sick one,” Jim hissed, digging his index finger into Richard’s slit, before giving him a few more rough pumps. “I bet you can’t come without a cock inside of you. I bet you’re so loose, my whole fist can fit inside of you.”

Richard wanted to retaliate. He wanted to scream, rage, cry, but all he could do was moan, buck his hips, and pray for Jim’s fist inside of him. Or Louis’ cock. Either would do. But – where was he?

Where was he being kept? And most importantly – what lessons had he missed this time? And where was Jim’s hand going? Oh, oh god. Jim’s cock, Jim’s cock was – Jim was on all fours on top of him, adjusting the restraints, and then Richard’s neck brace was removed, he was flipped over, and the little vibrating plug was replaced with Jim’s beautiful cock. He knew it was beautiful because they were identical. And because it was Jim, and Jim was beauty personified. He was lithe and thin and sharp and pointy and Richard was nothing in comparison; a caricature of a colossal beauty, a nothing, a nonexistence.

He came with a broken wail of Jim’s name, and the warmth of tears flooding over his cheeks.

_Dear diary,_

_Jim kidnapped me, and he fucked me, and I enjoyed it._

_He watched me get raped, and now he wants us to run away as though we’re madly in love. As though we’re not twins. As though we’re somehow capable of surviving in this writhing pit of snakes, somehow capable of outrunning the past, forgetting the past, and living in the future before it’s even begun._

_I don’t even know where I am. I have my journal (diary) and I have a pen, and I have him. I have Jim. Nobody will look for us. Nobody cares. We’re alone, isolated, drifting in a massive fucking ocean of nobody giving a shit and Jim giving too much of a shit._

_I feel like I’m chasing rabbits. I really do. I’m going to fall down a massive hole and wake up in Wonderland, and I’m going to be Alice in little fishnet stockings and a blue apron, and. And. I won’t be able to remember life. My life._

_Or maybe I’m craving drugs. LSD does that, I think. I think it’s addictive._

_Jim’s coming back. I know I’m going to fall, diary._

_Jim will catch me. I'd rather be dead._

_Love,_

_Richie_


	3. Drink Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cribbed, cabined, confined. Richard wasn't Macbeth, and yet.

The first time he’d done it, Jim had been so angry with him. He’d slipped up, made a mistake, and lost Jim the contract. “I didn’t mean to,” Richard sobbed, curled into a tight little ball in the black box he’d been shoved into. Jim’s suit was too big for him, and he felt like it was suffocating him. But it wasn’t the suit; it was Jim. Jim was suffocating him. Jim was overpowering, the scent of a storm, the thing clogging his throat and stuffing his nostrils; Jim was killing him, killing him slowly until there was nothing left but cinders of his body. “I – they – the dog, _Jim_ , the dog…”

“You got too close,” Jim’s voice was controlled, and Richard latched onto it. It was muffled through the wood, but Richard found it easier to breathe. “You got too close and you _fucked up_ , Richard, and that’s your fault. The dog picked up your scent, and that’s your fault. I told you to wear my cologne. I _told_ you.”

He was left there, alone, to scream and cry and piss himself and shit himself like a child. He was starving, thirsty, and sweaty by the time the lid was lifted, and it wasn’t Jim helping him out – no, it was a stranger, somebody with blank blue eyes and gentle hands. They washed him, shushed him when he cried, and then fucked him over the bath. He drank the soapy water in sheer desperation.

The box was cleaned, and he was shoved back in, arse bleeding and soap leaving a foul taste in his mouth.

The cycle was repeated. He was too weak to fight the abuse, too weak to mumble anything but Jim’s name. His head… He felt sluggish, weak, and he was nearly always tired, trapped in the black box. He began to resent it, fear it, and he screeched and wailed every time he was forced back into it. He barely remembered his own name in the suffocating darkness. And then he stopped talking. They liked it when he didn’t talk, didn’t they? Did they?

 _Dear diary_ , he thought.

_Richard. Richard. Richard. Richie. Rich. Richie Rich, like that film. Richard Brook, but Jim wants it to be Moriarty, wants me to be him. But that’s what got me here in the first place._

_I can’t think. I’ve not eaten. They keep hurting me. Jim’s not saved me._

_What do I do?_

His mental diary entry was cut off by the box opening again. It was somebody new this time, and his traumatised eyes just gazed up, up, up, as though the blackness was still there, as though he were still trapped. “Shit,” the person said, and then something was being put into him – a needle? – and then he was asleep, floating away with Morpheus – or maybe Hypnos – into a world with food and warmth and anything he could ever want.

“Shit,” the person said again, upon Richard’s eyes fluttering open. He was… In a bed. No box, no nothing. Just a bed. It must still be a dream. “Shit, kid, you gave me a fucking heart attack. I thought it was guns or something, something valuable to that mad bastard, and instead… I get some fucking sex slave? What the fuck? He’s losing his fucking mind trying to get you back. What the fuck do I do?”

Richard didn’t understand. Who was the ‘mad bastard’? Sex slave? Was he a sex slave? No, no; he was Jim’s twin, and Jim… Jim had been looking for him all the time. He must have been kidnapped. Yes, that was what happened. Jim would never lock him away in that box. He made a small noise, and then he was sucking on ice chips like they were his lifeline.

“How old are you?” the man asked. Richard had to think about that. He was… Eighteen, last time he checked. But how long had he been in the box? Maybe he was nineteen now. Things were very hazy. “Can you even fucking talk?”

Richard let out a soft squeak, opened his mouth, tried to make a word – but words wouldn’t come. He’d screamed, begged, said anything and everything to get out of that torture, but nothing had worked. Eventually, he just stopped. He… If he remembered it correctly, a spoonful of honey had been given to him before he was back in the box again, the first time he hadn’t spoken. So maybe his torturers had found a way to do what no one else had managed before – to silence him.

“No, you can’t fucking talk. Jesus fucking Christ. What do I do?” The man ran his hands through his hair, tugging at the strands. Richard watched with wide eyes. And then…

Explosions.

He was cowering under his bed when gleaming shoes appeared at the side of his bed. _Yves Saint Laurent_ , he thought. _Jim would love those shoes._ And then…

And then.

 _Jim_ , he thought, scrambling towards his brother. Jim yanked him out from under the bed and held him while he sobbed into his brother’s neck. _Jim, Jim, Jim_. Jim had come to save him from the nice man. Jim had _found_ him, _loved_ him, _wanted_ him. And that was all that mattered.

* * *

It was hours later after being rescued that Richard learned the truth about the box.

Jim was fucking him against it, despite Richard's begs and pleads to stop. The black-painted box pressed against his protruding hipbones, and Jim was grunting, moaning, touching Richard's cock as though he could find any pleasure from sex anymore. "So beautiful and broken," Jim panted against his ear, before viciously clamping his teeth into Richard's neck. "My little cock-warmer, aren't you? ... Why aren't you hard, bunny? Am I not good enough for you?"

Richard just felt numb. His eyes were wide, glazed, staring at the wall. At the fancy headboard of Jim's new bed, at the mathematical equations scrawled over the walls from one of Jim's manic episodes. When he was filled with warmth, he shuddered and let out a small, breathy cry, before he crumbled, broke down, started sobbing and scratching at his arms, trying to remind himself that he was free. 

But he wasn't. Not really.

 _Dear diary_ , he thought, mind hazy.

_I'm scared, diary. I want to live. I don't want to die. My name is Richard Brook, and four weeks ago, my twin and I turned nineteen years of age. Jim locked me away in a black box for five months, and fed me drugs to make the passing of time seem like a dream._

_He fed me vitamins and milk-soaked bread, and gave me treats of honey to condition me into his little bunny._

_And the worst thing, diary, is that I think he succeeded. I can't talk. At the proper chance of freedom, I cowered under my bed like a child. I still don't know the name of the government official that found me, but I remember the blue in his eyes and the way he touched me._

_He called me a sex slave. I don't like sex. I don't want it, and yet I encourage him. I flirt with him. I throw myself at him for more attention, which must make me a slave._

_His touch is loving and kind, and I reject him. I adore it when he's rough. I've been corrupted. Kindness appalls me; I live for his anger and his rage._

_He didn't like it when I spoke to others, so he removed my ability to talk. He's corrupted me, diary._

_I miss Louis._

_Love,_

_Richard Brook (Richard Moriarty?)_

 


End file.
